All Smiles
by fishscribe
Summary: a musician AU featuring driving and smiley food
1. part one

**_a/n:_** hello ffn! very excited to be (finally) posting something i've been working on for some time now. not quite sure how many parts this is going to be (maybe 2-3), BUT i hope you enjoy. sending love and hugs to anyone who reads this!

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 _PART ONE_

 **Westchester County, NY**

Bacon sizzles and spits on my plate. I drag a slice underneath two unblinking yellow yolks, and jerk the crust off of my toast to give the face a pair of pointed eyebrows. My breakfast surrenders a full-fledged grin, and I smile back.

I carry my plate to the kitchen table with the Sunday comics tucked under my arm. Todd always gives me grief because I still read the comics, but he owns two pairs of Crocs, so usually I feel like it's in my best interest to ignore him. I reach for the bacon as soon as I set down my plate, gracelessly drawing one end into my mouth. The white fat that runs through the middle is chewy—just how I like it.

The slap of bare feet on kitchen tile pulls me out of the _Agnes_ strip. I glance up, and Olivia Ryan's upper lip puckers smarmily. Even her stance—glossy talons perched on her waist, right hip popped to one side—is patronizing.

"What is _that_?" she challenges me in a voice awash with disbelief. I carefully readjust the position of the half-eaten bacon on my plate.

"A smiley face. See?" I point out the egg eyes, bread eyebrows, and bacon smile with a finger coated in residual grease. "Smiley breakfast plates are kind of my thing."

"I thought music was your thing," she deadpans. Olivia couldn't have looked more unimpressed if she tried.

"Yeah, but it's second to making smiling breakfasts. Music was my fallback, really," I explain sarcastically.

Olivia Ryan is dating Todd, my younger brother and second-rate roommate. He must have told her I was a big-shot popstar, because she was sickeningly sweet the first time we met. I guess I fell outrageously short of her expectations, because ever since she discovered that I open for Fatty Kidney and the Blessed Park on Wednesday nights with a six-song set list, she's treated me the way she treats gum on the underside of her shoe.

"It doesn't have a nose," she states in a clipped voice, still ogling my plate.

"I ran out of Cheerios."

"What happened to its mouth?"

"I got hungry."

Olivia exhales noisily through her nose, lifting her gaze to the ceiling in an _I-really-have-nothing-left-to-say-to-you_ sort of way. Fortunately, Todd chooses this moment to lope gracelessly down the stairs and slip into the kitchen, wearing an offensively sheer wife beater and a tiny pair of boxers. He presses his mouth to Olivia's temple, drawing an arm around her waist and pulling her against his side. Finally, her stoic, blasé expression cracks. She tucks her head under his chin, smiling affectionately.

"Disgusting," I gripe audibly, casting my eyes down towards my breakfast. I'm lying, though, and Todd knows it. They're sweet together, and as obnoxious as Olivia can be, she makes him happy. _Happier than you are_ , a voice in my head chastises smugly. I repress the urge to frown. I released an EP last December, and I've been touring with Fatty Kidney and the Blessed Park for three months, playing minor gigs in-between when I can find them. _I'm doing fine_ , I remind myself, _Better than most aspiring artists, anyway._

I push the eggs around with my fork, tearing the face apart—but not before Todd catches a glimpse of my plate. "Smiley breakfasts, Claire? Real mature." Then his gaze flits to the newspaper, and his impish grin swells, consuming his entire face. "Comics too? _Classic_." Todd likes to tease me about living in the past—smiley breakfasts and Sunday comics were an exciting staple of our otherwise monotonous childhood—but I don't think there's anything wrong with seeking comfort.

"You're a nut, Todd Lyons."

He untangles himself from Olivia and reaches across the table to filch what's left of the bacon off my plate. He aims one greasy tip towards my face, jabbing emphatically at the air before tossing it into his mouth. "Good luck tonight, sis. Drive safe."

"Mmm," I reply absentmindedly, turning away again to escape the traumatizing visual of Todd driving his tongue into Olivia's mouth. Still, a hollow twinge in my chest—from something other than disgust—makes me set my fork down. My breakfast stares up at me blankly.

xxx

 **Ramsey, Pennsylvania**

The drive to Blacksburg, Virginia takes over eight hours, but Dempsey begins to snore thirty minutes in. He lies sprawled across the bottom bunk, gangly limbs projecting over every edge. A trail of drool leaks out of the corner of his mouth, pooling inside a depression in the mattress.

I try to stick it out, mostly because I can't muster the willpower to move. I'm halfway through composing an email to Double Door in Chicago, practically begging to reserve space for a show in August, when Dempsey emits a particularly noisy grunt. Even the hair that hangs heavy like drapes over his face flutters. Exasperated, I snap my laptop shut and uncross my legs, rising from sofa. I tuck a bottle of Waiakea under my arm as I leave. Apparently it's ionized and sourced from volcanoes in Hawaii, but I have a hard time buying into artesian water crap. My agent says it'll help my voice and calls it high-end hydration—I call it asshole-water.

I make my way to the front of the tour bus, where Josh and Derrick sit in front of the television playing Skyrim. Once Derrick tried earnestly to explain it to me, but he'd lost me after his "level 65 Imperial Nightingale became a werewolf, destroying the Dark Brotherhood." I know better than to distract them in the middle of a game now, so I sink into a seat by the window and draw my phone out of my pocket. I have a single text from Todd—a picture of him and Olivia looking deliriously happy at the Rockefeller State Park Preserve.

 _Six-mile hike today. Didn't even break a sweat,_ the message below reads. I enlarge the photo reluctantly. Her arms are wound so tight around his waist that I find myself feeling genuinely concerned for Todd's wellbeing. A theatrical snort is all it takes for Josh and Derrick to pause their game and turn around.

"What?" Derrick demands, pinching his upper lip between his fingers impatiently.

"Just a picture of my brother and his she-devil girlfriend. It's nothing."

Josh extends an open palm, and I toss him my phone. "She's kinda hot, C," he muses, before handing it over to Derrick.

"She's terrible," I protest dramatically, pulling my legs into my chest.

"You jealous, C? At least Todd's got somebody to keep his bed warm."

 _Isn't that the truth_ , I think begrudgingly. Still, I shake my head insistently as I retrieve my phone from Derrick. "We're performers, we don't have time to date," I remind them hastily. It's a mantra I've repeated a thousand times—so familiar, it's like reciting my phone number.

"Speak for yourself," Derrick objects with a full-fledged grin. "I intend on being happily married and a father of three by the age of 30."

"That gives you, what, five years? Good luck, buddy."

"No, I'm serious! And I expect fucking stellar wedding gifts—I'm talking decorative bird cages, a Harley Davidson Street 500, and a full trunk of cash!"

"What the hell are you going to do with a decorative bird cage, jackass?"

I met Fatty Kidney and the Blessed Park last June at Bonnaroo. They were originally set to play between Songhoy Blues and Matt McCarthy, but a blip in the lineup placed them directly after me at the Cinema Tent. Dempsey came up to me after my set, only a little stoned, to applaud my performance. Drained, sweaty, and unbelievably flattered, I stuck around to watch them perform. They were brassy but romantic, pounding rock with bluesy embellishments—I loved it. Later that month, when they asked me to open for their tour, I cried for three hours. Todd and I treated ourselves to Chinese takeout that night, and he didn't even make fun of me when I arranged my vegetable Lo Mein into a smiley face with broccoli eyebrows.

Josh knocks me out of my reverie by flinging his Xbox remote at my face.

" _OW_ , what the—"

"I propose a toast," he declares, digging a six-pack out from under the sofa. He distributes a can of Natty Light to each of us and pops his tab.

"What're we toasting?"

"Music. Shitty beer. Skyrim."

"Two shows in Blacksburg, Virginia," Derrick chimes in readily, tipping his head back to take a voracious gulp.

"And your brother's girlfriend!" Josh concludes cheerfully. "To Olivia!"

"Amen," Derrick agrees with an uneven snigger.

 _Unbelievable._ I roll my eyes melodramatically, but can't fight the smile itching at the corners of my mouth.

xxx

 **Blacksburg, Virginia**

After my tech run-through at the venue, I have two hours to eat dinner. I pitch Dempsey, Josh, and Derrick what I hope looks like an encouraging wave before I sling my purse over one shoulder and head outside. The air is humid and sticky, even now in April. It feels nice—warm weather means summer, and summer means more ticket sales.

The walk to the grey, dimly-lit diner I found on Yelp takes me nearly half an hour. I step inside and glance at myself in the mirror that hangs in the lobby—my face is patchy and pink, framed by a mass of pale yellow flyaways. I pull a face at my reflection, but recover hastily when I notice that the woman beside me looks seriously alarmed. A little mortified, I order broccoli cheddar soup with a side of fries, before sinking into a booth in the back right corner. I open my phone to three new messages from Todd.

 **T:** _Break a leg tonight!_

 **T:** _P.S. I have something to tell you_.

 **T:** _P.P.S. No, I haven't been arrested. So relax._

I toy with the cap of my Waiakea, absentmindedly digging its grooves into the pad of my thumb, before I reply.

 **C:** _Hit me with it, I can handle it._

 **C:** _P.S._ _Unless you've knocked up your girlfriend, in which case I absolutely cannot handle it so PLEASE lie to me._

 **C** : _P.P.S. Like literally, I'd rather get thrown in jail than have to support Olivia through the process of conceiving her devil-child._

His response is almost instantaneous.

 **T:** _Okay, fuck you._

 **T:** _I'll call you later tonight. Around midnight-ish?_

I confirm, just as my order number is called from behind the counter. I eat slowly and inattentively, tracing lazy smiley faces with my fries in ketchup. My mind is trained so intently on the tour that I barely taste my food.

I perform once a week—twice here in Blacksburg, though it's the only exception—but I have no definitive plans post-tour. My agent says I finally have the funds and audience base to headline a tour, but even thinking about it sends a zip of panic down my spine. Touring with the boys is chaotic and loud and silly and exciting. It's gaming remote cords snarled with my dirty laundry, and sheets that haven't been washed in so long they're tinged pale brown, and sticky jeans that smell of beer. And it's anything but lonely.

In my head, I've visualized what a solo tour would look like: quiet meals and empty buses and forgetting a lyric during a run-through only to have no one standing in the wings to laugh about it with.

I don't realize how much time has passed until Dempsey's face lights up my phone, accompanied by the gentle buzz of my ringtone.

"Claire, where are you?"

"What?" I lift my eyes to the red plastic clock suspended from a bent nail on the wall. It reads half-past six. " _Crap_ , I'm sorry—I'm so sorry—coming now!" I blurt hastily, the phone tucked between my ear and shoulder as I pool my dirty napkins together. In my panicked haste, I practically assault my waitress with my credit card.

On my way out, one last glance at the clock confirms that I'll have to call a cab. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ _Get your shit together, Claire Lyons_ , I berate myself furiously, in disbelief that I could have been so careless. After twenty-four years of life, I have become extremely familiar with my impressive range of bad habits: I pick at my cuticles until they're pink and puffy, I impulsively buy cute underwear that I never use, and sometimes I forget to flush to toilet. But I am never, _ever_ late.

When I reach the corner of the block, I punch my address into the app. A jarring _DING_ alerts me that my driver—some guy named Cameron in a silver Honda Civic—will arrive in three minutes. I spend the entirety of those three minutes gnawing anxiously on my cuticles.

After what feels like a century and a half, the car pulls up alongside the curb, and I practically fling myself inside. "26 Hubbard Street, please!"

The driver, Cameron, meets my gaze in the rearview mirror before glancing away to shift gears. "You going to that show tonight?"

"Something like that," I say stiffly, keeping my eyes trained on the blinking time on his dashboard. _6:39_.

"Something like that," he echoes, puzzled.

I pinch my lower lip between two fingers—a habit I picked up from Derrick—in exasperation. "I may or may not be the opening act." _6:40._

"Oh, sick!" He exclaims. He jerks his head around to face me briefly, a full-fledged grin nearly splitting his face. He looks young—my age maybe, if not younger—with bright round eyes, a pointed nose, and black hair clipped short. _Objectively speaking,_ a voice in my head croons, _he's kind of cute_. "I'm Cam."

"Claire."

"Blacksburg's a college town, you know," he says after a beat of silence. "Go Hokies! Should be a fun show."

"I guess so."

Retrospectively, I could not have sounded less enthused if I'd tried. "What?" He asks distractedly, tossing several glances over his shoulder in an effort to merge into the left lane. "Bad undergrad memories? Throw up too many times in a frat basement, or what?"

I tug my eyes away from his dashboard ( _6:41_ ) and force myself to relax. "Not really. I only threw up twice, thank you very much." He laughs—a big, hearty, candid laugh that fills the car. "I'm just tense right now, I guess. I'm supposed to be at the venue in four minutes."

He hums thoughtfully. "Want some candy? It always helps me relax." He digs around in the glove compartment before extracting a faded Ziploc bag and thrusting it into the air triumphantly.

They're Sour Patch Kids, beaded with sugar granules that I know will sting my sensitive molars. I take the bag anyway, and instinctively arrange seven gummies into a smiley face on my thigh. "Thanks."

"So," Cam muses, slowing to a stop a quiet intersection, "You only here for the night?"

"Uh, yeah. Usually we only play one show, but we're double-booked at this venue. Like you said—college town."

"So you'll be around tomorrow, then?" He feigns innocence about as well as I can pretend to like Olivia. I narrow my eyes at his tone.

"Don't."

"Huh?"

"Flirt with me— _don't_."

 _I don't have time to date. I don't have time to date. I don't have time to date._ It's what I've been telling myself for the last three years. I haven't gone on a date since my twenty-first birthday, when the bar ran a tab on my card after Kemp Hurley "forgot his wallet" and ordered twelve Jack & Cokes. Incidentally, that was also the first (and last) night I ever punched someone. _Whatever_. Dating is for people who have nothing else going for them. People like sourpuss Olivia Ryan, whose passions in life include Instagram and juice cleanses. _I don't have time to date. I don't have time to date. I don't have time to date._

Cam's vociferous grunt of protest draws me out of my reverie. "I'm not flirting with you," he objects, aghast, as if he can't believe I even had the nerve to suggest it. He pauses, tapping his thumb gently against the wheel. "You got a boyfriend, or something?"

"No."

"Okay."

"Do you have a girlfriend?" I blurt reflexively after a beat of silence. I feel myself flush, so I rest my cheek against the window glass, icy from the air conditioning.

"Nope," he responds cheerfully, flicking on the turn signal.

"Okay."

"Okay."

I pop a Sour Patch Kid into my mouth just to have something to do. _6:44. 6:45. 6:46._ By the time we reach the back entrance of the venue, I've broken out in a lateness-induced sweat that definitely has nothing to do with the decent-looking, wide-grin-bearing cab driver.

"Hey, good luck tonight." Cam sticks his head out of the window with a sweet smile.

"Thanks." I feel suddenly and inexplicably nauseous, but I attribute it to pre-show nerves, and force a smile.

"Yup." He meets my gaze briefly, opening his mouth to say something else before clinching it shut resolutely. Instead, he offers a gentle wave, draws his head back inside the car, and rolls up the window.

His car pulls away from the curb and makes an immediate left, leaving a cloud of smoke in his wake.


	2. part two

_**a/n:**_ hi ffn! i'm back and done with finals! just so you know, there are lowkey jane the virgin (S2) spoilers in this. with that said, please enjoy!

* * *

 _PART TWO_

 **Blacksburg, Virginia**

My set goes well. Really well.

Josh even flashes two animated thumbs-up in my direction when I skirt offstage. _Holy shit_ , he mouths. Cam's words from earlier ring in my ears—" _college town…should be a fun show_ "—and I smile wryly. The crowd is receptive and noisy and possibly high and definitely drunk. Derrick, Josh, and Dempsey are received warmly by an onslaught of manic shrieks when they step out of the wings.

On a post-show high, I spring downstairs into the green room, an unusual pep in my step. I consider staying and watching from sidestage, tempted by the energy of the crowd, but ultimately decide against it. Instead, I pull my hair into a knot on my head and slip into a loose pair of sweats, slinging my pack across one shoulder.

When we first started touring, I used to stay behind and watch Fatty Kidney and the Blessed Park perform after my set. I even memorized all the words to _Please Pay for My Breakfast_ , an indisputable crowd-favorite, and caught myself humming it while brushing my teeth at night. But two weeks in, I realized how much I dreaded the suffocating, flush-against-sweating-strangers rush after a show. It's an undying buzz of slurred chatter and skin slick with sweat and the smell of cheap beer sinking into every pore and curling underneath my fingernails. Now I leave directly after opening, longing for the stillness and quiet of our tour bus.

The air outside is thick and warm. I pause, lifting my gaze to the crescent moon. Every muscle relaxes—the joints in my fingers, tense from clenching a microphone, and my eyes, worn from the flaring stage lights—and I can't remember the last time I felt so—

"Claire?"

 _What the fuck?_ I spin around anxiously, my heart lodged in my throat. My eyes dart back and forth across the expanse of a dark, empty intersection, before landing on a gangly outline in a leather jacket and dilapidated Converse.

I squint. "Cam?" Instead of slowing, my pulse picks up. He's leaning against the passenger door of his car, but peels himself off after I call his name. I'm glad it's dark enough to conceal my flush.

"Talk about a coincidence," he muses after issuing a sharp, prolonged whistle. "Don't tell me you're done for the night."

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I am," I stammer, my hands instantly clammy. I wipe them off indiscriminately against the side of my sweats. "I always try to leave as soon as possible—I don't like the chaos and the frenzy of post-show crowds."

He doesn't answer; he only grunts thoughtfully, lips pressed together in a hard line, tight and thin. Cam eventually takes a casual step in my direction, and reflexively I jump back.

"Are you…okay?" His tone is gentle, but his pursed lips and knit eyebrows indicate that he's repressing a laugh.

"I'm fine," I snap, probably a little too defensively. "Anyone would feel jumpy after being _barked at_ by a stranger."

"Well, technically I'm not a stranger."

"Well, technically I had a five-minute conversation with the back of your head. Pretty sure that makes you a stranger." I feel myself relax slightly—I'm good at this impassive teasing; it's how I treat Todd on a regular basis.

"Hey! I shared my Sour Patch Kids, too! _Jeez_ , talk about belittling my acts of kindness…"

I can't suppress the giggle that rises in my throat. "Oh, well in that case—"

Suddenly, a squeal that is very _15-year-old-Claire-losing-her-shit-at-a-Justin-Bieber-concert-_ esque cuts me off. "Cindy! Can I have your autograph?"

A lock of pink hair springs into my line of sight. Blinking furiously, I recover whatever's left of my poise and force a smile. The girl has a long, thin face, soft brown eyes, and a silver hoop projecting from the center of her lower lip. Her beer sloshes over the rim in one hand, and she grips a black Sharpie in the other.

"Uh, yeah! Sure thing." I uncap her pen and take the plastic phone case she hands me a second later. "What's your name?"

"Catherine. With a _C_."

"Okay, there you go." We engage in awkward, fumbling exchange as she tries to balance her phone, her pen, and her beer in all her tipsy disarray. Eventually, she thinks to wedge her Sharpie behind her ear.

"Thanks Cindy! You were great," she gushes enthusiastically, what's left of her beer dribbling to the concrete. With a cheerful wave, Catherine pivots on the balls of her feet and dashes away.

Once she's out of earshot, Cam breaks the silence with a noisy snort. "Did she just…"

"Oh my god," I deadpan, meeting his gaze. "She thought my name was Cindy."

"Well…it's the thought that counts, right?"

He was right, it was—but that did little to soothe my battered ego. "I guess so." I pick at a nonexistent fleck of lint on my sweater just to have something to do with my hands. "So…what are you doing here, anyway?"

"Shit, is this Claire Lyons' private property? I'm _so_ sorry for intruding."

"You know what I mean," I gripe with an overstated eye roll.

"I drive a cab for a living. Big crowds are, like, my version of hitting the motherlode."

I let that digest before something else piques my interest. "Wait—how do you know my last name?" I think back to our conversation in the cab, but can't really remember anything apart from my all-consuming stress about being late (and also the way the corners of his eyes—one bright green and the other deep blue—crinkled when he smiled at me through the rearview mirror).

"I may have Googled you," he shrugs unapologetically. "I didn't know you played at Bonnaroo! Also, you have over three thousand Twitter followers? That's pretty sick."

"Mm, stalker-like tendencies _and_ a social climber. I'm getting nothing but red flags here, Cam," I tease, ignoring the flutter in my gut I feel after hearing he looked me up.

He laughs warmly. "Hey, listen, do you have plans tonight?"

Apart from talking to Todd, ordering a mushroom pizza, and streaming at least four episodes of _Jane the Virgin_? Probably not. I shake my head and watch as Cam presses his lips together uncertainly.

"Do you…would you maybe—I mean, you _really_ don't have to—but if you _wanted_ to, you could come back to my place?" He cups the back of his neck, his cheeks pink; for the first time since we've met, Cam seems nervous. I find it so endearing that my heart swells.

"I-I should probably get back to the tour bus. I don't want to intrude—"

"You wouldn't be, though," he protests, shoving both hands into the back pockets of his jeans. "We could eat. I mean, I can't really cook, but I have Sour Patch Kids and a takeout menu from Little Caesars."

"But what about driving? Like—don't you have work?"

"I work around my own schedule. Perks of driving a cab."

"So…I'm part of your schedule, then?"

"Yeah, I think I can pencil you in." He's teasing now, more relaxed, the ghost of a dimple grazing his left cheek.

"I suppose I can't say no to Little Caesars…" I muse as casually as possible, despite the fact that the hammering of my heartbeat is ringing in my ears.

Cam wrenches open the passenger door and gestures dramatically toward the seat, threadbare like old yarn, sprinkled with wrinkled candy wrappers.

"Let's go, _Cindy_."

xxx

 **Christiansburg, Virginia**

Cam lives about an hour outside Blacksburg in a small town called Ferrum.

His car hums over the quiet, dimly lit local roads as our topic of conversation transitions from his longtime Sour Patch Kid addiction to his Febreze car vent clips (Hawaiian-Aloha-scented) to our favorite music.

I had him pegged as a Kendrick or King Mez kind of guy, so I'm surprised when he launches into a ten minute commendation of the Strokes' discography.

" _Is This It_ is hyped up. Too indie for my tastes. But _Comedown Machine_ is—is just flawless and brazen. It's hands down my favorite album of all time. I mean—c'mon, the guitar on _50/50_ still gives me chills. Just…" He lifts his right hand before swinging it down, smacking the wheel fervently, "…effortless. And the disco grooves in _Welcome to Japan_ , holy shit..."

Towards the end of his monologue I inadvertently drown him out, captivated by the expressive upturn of his lips. He gesticulates wildly, puncturing every point with a wave or a punch to his thigh. Every so often the car skids to a lurching standstill after he overlooks a yellow light, and he casts a sheepish half-smile in my direction before resuming. Cam—with his untidy dark hair and one blue eye and one green eye and tatty leather jacket and energetic pan-hands—is a sight for sore eyes.

"What do you like, then?"

When he shifts the spotlight onto me, I have to look at my fingers knotted in my lap in order to focus. "Uh, I like a whole lot. Stevie Nicks, Fleetwood Mac—"

"Rock n' roll nuns, yeah?"

I laugh at his reference, secretly pleased. "Exactly, yeah. But as far as what I write—well, it's more indie than anything."

"It's good."

"What is?"

"What you write. It's good."

My stomach clenches at the insinuation that he's listened to my music. Then I start to panic—what exactly has he looked up? Not my 2009 YouTube covers, God forbid. He must sense my discomfort—or he's just utterly oblivious—because he chirps after another stretch of silence, "I'll make you a mixtape tonight. Some Weezer, Electric Six…you'll be a grungy, alt-rock artist in no time, Cindy."

xxx

 **Ferrum, Virginia**

We pull into a dark parking lot a little after 9. Cam lives in a modest apartment complex on the sixth floor with a goldfish named Steve. His place is homey, with two mustard yellow couches and an old-fashioned fire place and a sequence of low-hanging ceiling lamps. Everything smells vaguely of cereal, something that Cam apologizes profusely for the moment he thrusts his key into the lock.

In the vestibule, he pauses to kick off his shoes, so I do the same. He slowly runs a hand through his hair and looks around. "It's kinda messy," he acknowledges with a wince. "Didn't expect company when I left this morning."

"It's no problem," I say, and I mean it. Todd and I naturally err on the side of disorganization, but ever since Olivia's been sleeping over, our apartment has been almost unnervingly tidy.

Cam presses his hand into my lower back gently—which doesn't affect me whatsoever—and guides me into the kitchen. "Feel free to sit," he says, jerking his head toward the small wooden table, "I'll go order a pizza or something."

"Mm, mushroom please!" I holler over my shoulder.

I hear him place the call from his living room—one large mushroom pizza, breadsticks, and an extra side of garlic butter dipping sauce—before he shuffles back into the kitchen. He offers me a beer, snags one for himself, and collapses into the seat across from me.

"So…Claire Lyons," he begins with an openly curious expression, "What's it like being on tour?"

"Fun. Exciting. As far as tours go, though, it's pretty relaxed. We usually only tour once a week, and then the four of us head back to New York—them to Brooklyn and me to Westchester."

"Touring with three guys, huh? Must be fun." Something about his tone and the slight downturn of his lips leads me to believe that "fun" isn't the word he means at all.

"Yeah, they're great guys."

Cam seems displeased with my answer, and takes a generous swig of his drink before responding. "So, Josh, Derrick, and what's-his-face?"

"Dempsey."

"Right," he mumbles, tapping his thumb rhythmically against the rim of his beer. "Dumb name if you ask me."

" _Cam_ —"

" _What_? I'm just saying…"

His tone is sour and his eyes are cast down at the table. It strikes me that he might me jealous. I would have thought it was sweet if, you know, I was even remotely interested. Which I wasn't. Still, I feel bizarrely compelled to reassure him.

"Dempsey snores. Loud. Drools, too." I pause, gauging his reaction. Cam lifts an eyebrow in a _go-on_ type of way, and I bite back a smile. "Derrick is a total nut—I mean, he averages, like, six Red Bulls a day. Also, I'm pretty sure Josh hasn't showered in a week. Our bus _reeks_."

Cam grins, now in a considerably better mood, and grabs an open bag of Sour Patch Kids from the mantle behind him. "Alright, Cindy. Life story, go."

The next hour flies. We switch off on the exchange of basic facts as he picks the sugar granules off every wedge of candy and nurses his beer.

I skip over my college years, because I was hideously insecure and convinced that I was destined to study finance, but I do offer some tidbits about Todd, my affinity for smiling food, and how I spent four consecutive summers working at Olive Garden. I save any anecdotes about Olivia for a later date.

In return, Came explains that he's twenty-five, a broadcast journalism major interested in eventually covering college football, and a part-time recreational league soccer coach. He's been driving cabs for four months, his favorite TV show is The Office, and he likes long walks on the beach (his words, not mine). He also calls me Cindy a few more times, just for good measure, and my stomach predictably executes a series of perfect somersaults.

By the time our pizza arrives, we've demolished a bag and a half of Sour Patch Kids and I don't have much of an appetite. I suspect Cam doesn't either, because he halfheartedly picks at a chunk of mushroom for a good minute before he pops it into his mouth.

We fall into silence, the cycle of chewing and sipping interrupted only when Cam asks if I'd like to watch TV. Grateful for his interjection, I nod and follow him into the family room. We settle into the same couch—though I make sure to leave an appropriate foot of space between us—and Cam offers me the remote.

Tentatively, I take the reins and comb through Netflix until I find what I'm looking for. When I hit play, Cam lifts his eyebrows not-so-discretely.

"What?"

"Nothing! I just—I've never watched this before. It seems cheesy."

" _Jane the Virgin_ is a cinematic blessing! Don't be so judge-y."

"Yeah, okay," he replies, noticeably unconvinced. "I guess we're about to find out."

Almost immediately, I realize that selecting an episode well into season 2 is probably not conducive to Cam falling in love with this show. The first minute of the episode introduces him to multiple, curtailed story arcs that even I have trouble digesting. Still, he takes it in stride, laughing when Jane pretends to be Angelique Harper's assistant and protesting when Lola, Rogelio's stalker ex-assistant, presses the blade of a knife against his temple.

He keeps his questions to a minimum, his gaze fixed raptly on the flat screen. When Lola divulges her (disturbing) plan to make love to Rogelio "in the light of the full moon," Cam cries out in disbelief, "Who the fuck is this _creep_?"

I hush him with a theatrical arm wave, but secretly I'm pleased that he's being such a good sport. Gradually, my focus on the episode wavers, my eyes flitting unremittingly and reflexively in his direction. I scrutinize his profile—his long, thin nose and his protruding upper lip—and the way his pinky finger—slightly crooked at the lower knuckle, with a clean, clipped fingernail—splays across his couch, almost invitingly.

After Petra gives birth to her twins and Jane joins Michael outside the hospital, I finally redirect my attention to the television. We watch as Michael drops to the ground on one knee to propose, and I feel my breath catch in my throat. I should've known—the characters were dropping hints throughout the episode—but I press the heel of my hand into the corner of my eye anyway, trapping a tear. Unfortunately, I wasn't as discrete as I had hoped, because I feel the couch dip as Cam shifts his weight to face me.

"Are you—Claire, are you crying?"

"No!" My strangled wail suggests otherwise, and suddenly Cam looks seriously alarmed.

"Shit, Claire, please don't cry—"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," I mumble between a series of teary hiccups. "This is happy crying, I promise. I'm Team Michael."

Cam exhales noisily and lifts his thumb, brushing it against my cheek and knocking a tear off its course. As if that stroke across my face wasn't enough to send me into cardiac arrest, Cam gently places an arm around my shoulder—effectively obliterating the scrupulous foot of space I had initially placed between us.

Against my better judgment, I wind my fingers into his shirt and duck my head into the crook of his neck.

"They're so sweet together," I submit in an attempt to steady my breathing.

"Jane and Michael?"

"Yeah. They're meant to be..."

"Mm."

"…None of this Rafael bullshit. He doesn't _really_ know her like Michael does."

"Claire, I want to kiss you."

"They're just—wait, _what_?"

It's like he's knocked the wind out of me. A strangled squeak is all I can manage, clammy hands fisting the fabric of his shirt as firmly and voraciously as I would cling to a lifeline. I can't even pretend I don't want to kiss him—frankly, I want to kiss him more than I can handle. _It's the beer_ , I remind myself frenetically, glossing over the fact that my beer—well within my line of sight on the kitchen table—is nearly full.

"Claire," he repeats, his breath hot on my cheek, "Can I kiss you?"

My gaze darts between his blue eye and green eye, back and forth, panicked and uncertain. Ultimately, I offer a minute nod, my pulse pounding in my ears.

When Cam traces our lips together, his nose slotting beside mine, my eyes fall shut. One hand settles against my jaw and the other cups the dip in my waist. He radiates warmth—in his leg hooked around mine, in the stroke of his tongue across my lower lip, in his overwhelming and intoxicating proximity.

Dizzy and shaken, I knot my fingers in his hair, anchoring myself to him. When he pulls me closer, I'm hyperaware of his eyelashes on my cheek. I part my lips and taste the sour sugar coating on his tongue.

But it's his hand—fingering the hem of my sweater before trying to ease it off my skin—that finally draws me back to reality. Quickly, I jerk my head to the left and smooth out my sweater, frenziedly trying to make sense of what just happened.

Cam scrambles to his feet, swallowing loudly as he draws his hand through his hair. "Shit, I—I didn't mean to—I thought we both—"

"No, it's not that. I do—I mean, wait. Listen, Cam, I'm not a hook-up person, but I don't have time for a relationship right now. Not that you'd even want that necessarily, I don't know— _God_. You're great and everything, really, but I—" The words pour from my mouth, smeared and slurred and frazzled. "I should get back."

Cam doesn't respond immediately. He simply chews on his lower lip—I avert my eyes pointedly—with both hands shoved into his pockets.

"Okay," he deadpans finally, "I'll drive you."

"What? No. It's fine, really, I can just call a cab."

He lifts an eyebrow in disbelief. "So you'll hook up with a cab driver, but you won't let him drive you home?"

" _Cam_ —" I protest, mortified, feeling my skin flush.

"I'm serious, let me drive you. It's no problem, really."

"You've been drinking!"

"I had, like, half a beer over an hour ago. I'm fine."

I bite my lip. This shouldn't have happened. I was supposed to go back to the bus, slip into my quiet bunk, and watch _Jane the Virgin_ alone.

"If it really bothers you that much, you can pay me." He intends it as a joke, but I can't find it in me to smile. Instead, I force myself to stand and fold my arms across my chest.

"Let's just go."

xxx

 **Blacksburg, Virginia**

After six attempts at making conversation—and after being virtually shot down every single time—I think Cam finally gets the hint. Our commute is quiet and still. I face the window, my eyebrow pressed into the glass until it falls numb.

Cam drops me off behind the venue where our bus is parked. I unbuckle my seatbelt before he even tugs the keys from the ignition. I thank him hurriedly without meeting his gaze, wave half-heartedly, and walk away.

Short and sweet, the way it has to be.

I find our bus empty, apart from the driver who's reclined in the battered love seat. I figure the boys are out getting plastered at some college bar, and for once I'm grateful for their absence. My feet drag as I wind my way toward my bunk. Once inside, I snap the divider shut and I'm plunged into darkness. My head lolls into my hands, and I let out the primal grunt I didn't realize I was holding in

It would never work. We don't even live in the same state. I hardly know him. I have too much on my plate. And I am _not_ overreacting.

"I don't have time to date," I garble furiously into my bare hands.

The only response I receive is the buzz of my cell phone, hidden somewhere in the folds of my comforter. When I find it, a familiar face flashes across the screen.

"Todd?"

"No, this is his receptionist. I can arrange a meeting if you'd—"

"Seriously, Todd, I'm not in the mood."

"Okay sourpuss, what's your problem?"

I fist the hair at the nape of my neck and exhale noisily. "Sorry, I just had the weirdest night. Forget it."

"Is this a bad time? I can—"

"No, now is perfect. What's up?"

"I, uh, was going to wait until she got home so we could tell you together, but fuck it."

"What are you talking about?"

And somehow, before he even has the chance to reply, I get a sinking feeling in my gut.

"I proposed to Olivia. We're engaged."

* * *

 _ **a/n:**_ so that happened. i would love to hear your thoughts-if you drop me a review i will love you forever :)


	3. part three

_PART THREE_

 **Blacksburg, Virginia**

Making a smiley face in cereal is a real challenge.

Twenty-four years of refined experience have taught me to: 1) ensure the perfect milk-to-cornflake ratio, and 2) act quickly before the cornflakes sink to the bottom. However, attempting this on a tour bus is a struggle I hadn't anticipated.

The kitchen sits on a tight, narrow platform near the back of the bus with a microwave wedged between a single storage unit and a grimy oven. Wooden knobs jut out and bulge at every angle, bearing identical greasy hand towels, leaving the space so cramped that I hardly have room to maneuver my spoon.

By the time I've tucked myself into the seat that overlooks the side street, my cornflakes have gone soggy, merging into one dejected clump at the bottom of my bowl. I chew absentmindedly, thinking about anything and everything that isn't _him…_

But somehow _he_ remains unnervingly present. When I slip the spoon between my teeth, I can feel the weight of his mouth against mine, warm and soft and sweet. When I pause to rub an itch on my stomach, I feel his fingers peeling back the fabric of my sweater, pressing the pad of his thumb into my hip. It's all-consuming and sets me on edge.

I want to scream. Or cry. Or punch something.

Maybe I would've if Josh and Derrick weren't seated directly across from me. They're playing Skyrim again, perched on the edge of their seats, eyes glazed over. Giving up on my cereal entirely, I train my eyes on the screen, the game proving to be a welcome distraction.

Derrick's character—a hooded, shifty-looking creature wearing some kind of medieval armor—keels over suddenly before he's engulfed in pixilated flames.

" _Fuck!_ Why'd you try to sneak under that destruction spell?" Josh snarls, outraged.

Derrick sinks back into the sofa, pressing his hands into his face. "I'm an idiot."

"I hate you so much right now, you know that?"

With a disgruntled grunt, Derrick lifts his head and frowns. "Right, because when you ate the jarrin root Astrid gave you after she _warned_ you it was the deadliest poison in the world—"

"That was _two years ago_ , how was I supposed to know it had alchemical properties?"

I clear my throat noisily, a not-so-gentle reminder of my presence. Both heads snap up in perfect unison. Josh flicks a button on his remote, pausing the game.

"What's up, C?"

"Nothing much," I reply, grinding the cornflakes to mush with the underside of my spoon.

"Why do you look so weird?"

"Uh, thanks."

"C'mon, you know what I mean."

"Todd and his evil girlfriend are engaged," I concede in the same tone I might've used to describe maggot-infested gums. After Todd's call last night, I'd been virtually at a loss for words. Still, Todd's gushing—essentially a series of "I'm so fucking happy" and "this is the best day of my life" on a loop—seemed like a sign from the universe that I shouldn't delve into my unfavorable opinion of his wife-to-be. Instead, I congratulated him with feigned enthusiasm before I returned to brooding over the cab-driving, goldfish-owning He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

"Hot Olivia?" Derrick yelps, straightening in his seat.

"She's just the _worst_. And he's only twenty-one—what on _earth_ plagued him to… _ugh_! Did I mention she's the worst?"

"Only every time you bring her up."

"Listen," Josh cuts in firmly, "At least you'll rarely see her. I mean, you're going on tour soon, right?"

"Hate to break it to you, my friend, but we've been on tour since February."

"I mean your _own_ tour," he sighs with a theatrical eye roll. "The Claire Lyons headline US tour."

Swallowing hard, I force a nod as if I haven't been repressing that idea for weeks now. "Right, we'll see," is all I can manage. I glance down at my bowl and realize that I've crushed my cereal to a pulp. Long gone is any trace of a cornflake smile.

xxx

 **Blacksburg, Virginia**

My wreck of a mental state translates into a less than inspiring performance.

I trip over an amp cable twice and forget the lyrics to the 2nd verse in _Fairfield_ during my set. Flushed pink and nauseous with shame, I make a dash for the green room after the lights dim without so much as a glance in the boys' direction. Josh catches my arm when I brush past him, but I shake him off, perhaps too aggressively. I'll have to apologize later.

When I reach the green room, I lean my backside against the door, pressing it into its frame with a sharp click. My heartbeat pumps in my ears. I take a steadying breath before I push myself upright. Peeling off my leggings, I lift my eyes to the full-length mirror set into the wall across from me. My gaze trails up my legs—bare, pimpled with goosebumps, and pasty white—to my face, coated in sweat and etched with worry. _Relax_ , I hiss inwardly. _You're fine_.

I slip into a pair of too-snug jeans, slick my hair into a knot at the base of my neck, and drag myself outside.

I've only taken three steps when suddenly my stomach floats to my chest the way it does on the Dragon Coaster at Playland Park. I stop in my tracks.

Stupid leather jacket, stupid black Converse, stupid-

"Cam," I blurt. It sounds strangled, wheezy.

"Hi. I'm glad I caught you."

I'm not entirely sure what I'm supposed to say to that. He's leaning against the passenger door of his car, just like yesterday, with his ankles crossed and arms folded. His hair is mussed, as if he's been frenetically running his hands through it. He looks…handsome. I don't let myself dwell on it.

"So, busy night?" I try to sound offhand, weightless. Cam takes a step forward and shrugs.

"I, uh—I guess so. Except I'm not here for work. I mean, I am, but I also—I was waiting for you," he admits with the slightest frown. "I wanted to give you this." He nearly closes the space between us then, pacing forward until I can smell his leather. My pulse races.

Cam reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a plastic CD case. A paper insert with his squat, blocky handwriting scrawled across the front serves as the cover.

 _To: Claire_

 _From: Cam_

I can't tear my eyes away from the way he writes my name or from the lopsided smiley face inked by the bottom edge. I hear his breathing hitch when at first I don't respond.

"I put Hole on there, and some Blind Melon. Electric Six, too."

"Cam—"

"I promised I'd make you a mixtape. So…here you go."

I finally meet his gaze. I drink it in gluttonously, the rings of blue and green, framed by dark lashes and heavy lids. "Thank you," I murmur finally, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear just to have something to do with my free hand.

"Do you need a ride anywhere?" He asks. His mouth curls and his eyebrows are set in an upward slant—Cam looks so hopeful. Still, I don't even consider his offer, something like warning bells ringing in my ears.

"No thanks. I'm just gonna—" I trail off, jerking my chin in the direction of the bus.

It's still light enough outside to detect the exact moment Cam's face falls. To his credit, he recovers quickly. "Right."

"Yeah."

"You're going home, then?"

"Back to Westchester."

Emotive, afflicted Cam is no more. If he's upset, he conceals it beautifully. He simply shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and shoots me a tight smile. It's the kind of smile you offer a stranger who steps into the elevator with you. A smile of unreserved indifference.

"Bye, Claire," he says finally, his words clipped.

His back to me, Cam slouches off to his car. I subconsciously dig a corner of the CD case into the pad of my thumb until it aches. It isn't until I drop my head that I'm conscious of the wetness that stings the corners of my eyes.

xxx

 **Brooklyn, New York**

New York's most populous borough welcomes us with cool weather, a stark contrast from Blacksburg's balmy afternoons. Still, I tug the open the window of our bus and peer outside, oddly comforted by the peaks of Flatbush and Montague. My hair swells with the wind when I rest my chin on the window ledge.

Someone behind me clears their throat. I drop into my seat, a frown set on my face before I even turn around. Josh is leaning against the protruding wall that separates the kitchen from the lounge.

"Dempsey wanted me to tell you that we're almost at our place," he says passively, staring at his fingernails with the same sort of severe concentration I reserve for Ken Burns documentaries.

I sigh, pushing myself off the couch and taking a step in his direction. Josh has been acting unusually cold towards me since I brushed past him in the wings. As he stands here in front of me, pointedly avoiding my eyes, my stomach twists with guilt. "Hey, sorry for being a dick earlier," I offer solemnly, extending my arm self-consciously to pat his shoulder. "It's just been a hard week."

Josh sighs dramatically, but I'd have to be blind to miss the corners of his lips twitching. "Was it 'cause of Todd and his girlfriend—uh, fiancé?"

"Exactly," I reply as firmly as I can. "That's all."

 _Liar_.

Josh smiles sympathetically and squeezes my hand. "I'm sorry you feel shitty. But who knows—maybe it'll be alright. People can surprise you."

Feeling equal parts unconvinced, frustrated, and overwhelmed, I imagine the forced smile I shoot Josh looks more like a scowl.

xxx

 **Westchester, New York**

I'm home two hours before Todd steps into the apartment. This gives me ample time to slip his lamb biryani leftovers into the microwave and dig the comics out from under Todd's stack of miscellaneous paperwork. As a college drop-out who splits his time between an internship at a small strategic marketing agency based in Brooklyn and a Panera Bread, Todd leaves an impressive assortment of paraphernalia lying around the apartment. Sometimes I find leaflets on customer acquisition and optimizing potential, sometimes I unearth old shift schedules, and sometimes his Writing 101 essays from freshman year pop up too.

Partway through _Hagar the Horrible_ , I register the clink of keys being inserted into the doorknob. I lift my head from the newspaper just as Todd saunters in wearing slacks and a navy button-up. It's internship day, then. He loosens his tie wearily and rubs an eye with his free hand. He freezes when his gaze lands on the kitchen table.

"Is that my Indian from last night?"

"I don't know, did you order lamb biryani with extra potatoes last night?"

"Okay, wise-ass."

"You're right, it's definitely yours. Who else would ask for extra potatoes?"

"The supple texture complements the gristly lamb! Dickhead!"

Laughing, I inch my chair to the left to offer him space. Todd sinks into the seat beside me and jerks his chin at my plate. Due to the severe scarcity of cilantro leaves in the to-go box, my smiley face is missing an eye.

"He lost this one during the war," I explain gravely, "Poor guy was never the same."

Todd smiles and pulls his phone out from his pocket. I redirect my attention to the comics. We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes until Todd turns to me.

"So Olivia's coming over for dinner tonight."

Something unpleasant roils in my gut. I swallow before responding. "Was there a question buried in there, or—?"

"Nope. Just letting you know."

I try not to stew. "Okay, then."

Todd makes several audible clicks with his tongue, clearly unsatisfied. " _Claire_. What's wrong?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You're not stupid, you know what I'm referring to."

 _Jesus_. I cross my arms and fix my expression into what I hope is something reasonably neutral. "Enlighten me, then."

"You hate Olivia."

"Todd, don't be st—"

"No, I mean it. You treat her like trash. She's my fiancé, Claire. She's family."

I don't hate Olivia. Really, I don't. I think she's shallow and supercilious, but I know she makes Todd happy. I should explain this to him, or apologize, or assure him that I think Olivia has great tits. _Anything_ but twist the knife further _._ Instead, I give in to the tension and frustration of the past two days, and I deadpan: "I think it's stupid to get engaged so young."

Todd yelps at this, rising from his chair in one fluid motion. "I'm an adult, Claire. I pay rent, I have two jobs—"

"For fuck's sake, you work at Panera Bread," I snap before I can help myself. I watch as Todd's face contorts into a grimace—eyebrows knit together, upper lip curled, nose creased with wrinkles.

"I'm an adult," he repeats slowly, furiously.

"You're my little brother! How can _you_ be engaged?" I exclaim, tossing my hands in the air. A grain of basmati rice is suddenly airborne.

Todd pauses and then clears his throat, his eyes flicking cagily across my expression. "Are you…jealous?" His tone is tentative and wary. It's the same voice he used to use with our parents when clarifying whether or not he was still grounded.

I must look visibly upset, because he gently extends a hand. I jerk back swiftly. "Of course I'm not jealous," I sputter, feeling mortified. "Why would I be jealous? My life is great. In fact, I'm living my dream."

Todd blinks. "Seriously? You tour once a week and then what—wallow alone in the house waiting for a record label to snatch you up?"

"Screw you. That's not fair," I spit, standing to jab my pointer finger into his chest. "I'm trying!"

"You absolutely are not."

"You're practically a _kid_ —you don't know shit!"

"Goddammit, Claire!" He brings his open hand down and smacks the table. I jump. "You know what I think? I think you're lonely. The smiley breakfasts, the comics…you're living in the past—we're not 7 anymore!"

"I'm _not_ lonely, I have friends," I practically seethe. "I just don't have time to date. Excuse me for not accepting a marriage proposal two months after purchasing my first legal Bud Light." I ignore his other jab. _I'm_ _fine_.

"You're scared."

"This conversation is over."

I don't spare him a second glance as I storm out of the kitchen. Our apartment is so small, the eight steps I take toward the door don't have quite the dramatic flair I would've liked. I race up the stairs of our complex to the top floor, which is essentially an abandoned space that management has been trying to develop into three new residential units. There haven't been contractors over in what feels like months, so I come up here sometimes to write—and also, apparently, to throw tantrums.

A hot tear slips down my cheek. I press it into the sleeve of my sweater before it can dribble off my chin.

 _I'm fine_. It seems like my mantra these days. I should get it tattooed across my forehead, right beside "coward," and "look at me, I'm in a rut." I kick the cement wall with the toe of my sneaker and squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to let myself cry further.

Too scared to headline a tour. _Kick_. Too scared to commit to a relationship. _Kick_.

Todd has always been a proactive person. He played basketball—albeit poorly—for 15 years. He pursued Olivia for seven months before she agreed to a first date. Hell, he was even sure enough of himself to drop out of college. Apart from our affinity for Asian takeout, we are nothing alike. I like routines and control. But—and it stings to admit—Todd is right. Sticking to comfort has left me feeling increasingly lost. I stop kicking, resting my forehead against the wall instead, wishing I could sink into the cement and disappear for a few eternities.

It takes all of three minutes for the stairwell door to pop open. Slightly ashamed, I already have the skeleton of a reconciliatory speech drafted in my head. With a firm exhale, I force myself upright and turn.

"Todd, I—"

I freeze. Because it isn't Todd standing across the room in his decorous office getup, arms outstretched in regret, but _Olivia_. Only…she isn't looking for a hug, and she's more daisy dukes than she is business casual.

"What are doing here?"

"He said you'd be upstairs."

"And since we're such great pals, you thought you'd stop by for some girl talk?" Olivia lifts a shapely, microbladed brow, and I regret my words instantly. "Sorry," I append quickly, "Bad day."

"What'd you say to Todd? He looks like someone just ran over his dog," she ventures with an impatient huff.

"That'd be tricky, seeing as he doesn't own one."

"Can you please be serious for, like, two seconds?"

This sobers me. "Sorry," I repeat, though not entirely sure I mean it. Olivia isn't quite at the top of my people-I'd-like-to-have-heart-to-hearts-with list.

"What's wrong with you?"

"I'm a wimp," I assert humorlessly. "In more ways than one. Todd called me out, I yelled back, etcetera."

"God." She flings her eyes to the ceiling in flagrant exasperation. "Life is scary. Just deal with it." I catch myself wondering what exactly she has to be scared about, but I appreciate the gesture regardless.

"Uh, thanks, Olivia."

She licks her bottom lip and smiles. "Go make up with Todd. He promised to come to SoulCycle with me, but he won't enjoy himself if his chakras are out of balance."

I blink. "…Okay. There's something I need to do first, though." SoulCycle might have to wait, I think to myself as I reach into my pocket for my keys.

xxx

 **Hagerstown, Maryland**

I've barely entered Maryland before I register the flashing light on my fuel gauge. Muttering under my breath, I pull off at the next exit and steer myself to a Texaco.

It isn't until I've got my fuel cap off and the pump in my hand that my gaze lands on the convenience store directly behind the gas station.

I realize that there's something I need to pick up.

xxx

 **Ferrum, Virginia**

Cam's face blanches when he pulls back his door.

I'm not sure what I was expecting. I wait for him to say something, to react somehow, but he continues to stare, pale and unblinking. My heart begins to sink. Instinctively, I offer a wave. _For fuck's sake, Claire_. I snap my arm down, mortified, but this seems to shake him out of his stupor.

When he finally speaks, his voice is thick with fatigue. "It's three in the morning."

"To be fair, you did bring this upon yourself." I try to keep my tone light, as if my stomach doesn't feel like it's been upended and lodged in my throat.

"Oh?"

"You opened the door."

"Because I thought I was getting robbed!"

"So…you were just going to invite the robber in?"

"I—fuck, it's a bit early for fully lucid processing, okay?" He drags a hand down his face and then across the nape of his neck. I will myself not to dwell on how attractive I find him right now, all tousled hair and baggy clothes. Finally, he meets my gaze. I swallow noisily. "Claire. What are you doing here?"

I feel my hands shake and furtively slip them behind my back. Suddenly, I'm fifteen years old again and about to ask Chris Abeley to the Sadie Hawkins dance. _Don't be a coward_ , I all but shriek at myself.

"I like you, Cam."

It could be a trick of the dim hallway lighting, but I swear his ears turn pink.

"Yesterday, you made it seem—"

"I know what I made it seem like," I cut him off with a wince, not exactly desperate to relive our last interaction. "But I like you. I was scared because I'm no good at this. At dating and—and at putting myself out there, or trying things that make me uncomfortable. But I like you."

"You said that already." He's almost smiling.

"Yeah, well, it's true. I like you, and I like your stupid goldish. I like the mixtape you made me. I listened to it four times on my way here."

"You drove here from Westchester?" Cam exclaims, his eyebrows nearly disappearing behind the dark hair swept across his forehead.

"How else would I have gotten here?"

"But it's like, what, seven hours?"

"Eight hours. Plus an extra twenty minutes because I got caught in an unfortunate altercation with the man at the Texaco convenience store counter."

"What are talking about?"

"36 bags of Sour Patch Kids. The guy nearly burst an artery while ringing me up."

Finally, Cam takes notice of the two plastic bags at my feet. He squats briefly and pulls out a pack of Sour Patch Kids Tropical, turning it over and over in his palm as if inspecting it. He seems to have stopped breathing.

"I've reached my quota for sweeping romantic gestures, though. Don't expect anything this grand for…oh, I'd say another twenty-four years."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll need some time to recharge."

"Makes sense."

And finally— _finally_ —Cam cracks. Relief floods his face as he takes a step forward. "I'm glad you came. Claire, I—"

I launch myself at him before he can finish, and we stagger into the vestibule.

" _What_ —"

"Shh—shut up, _please_ shut up." It pours out of my mouth, soft and garbled, between every hasty kiss. "I just want to kiss you." He reaches blindly for my waist until a finger finally catches in a belt loop. Cam draws our hips together and I sigh into his mouth.

"I mean it," he continues breathlessly, pulling back briefly to drag his thumb across my cheek. "And thanks for the candy. My cab driver ratings will skyrocket."

"They're for you, not your patrons," I start to chastise, before Cam hums against my mouth and everything else slips my mind.

After a few minutes, I unhook my arm from around his neck and determinedly pop the button of my jeans. Cam freezes, his hand catching mine in the process of tugging down the zipper.

"What are you doing?"

"If you don't know what I'm doing, you might want to consider taking a Health Ed class. Or calling your parents. Have you heard of the birds and the bees?"

"Cute," Cam deadpans, a deep crease wedged between his eyebrows. "I'm serious, Claire. Should we talk about this first?"

"I want to. I'm sure. Do you…?"

"Fuck, of course I do," he manages breathlessly.

His smile sets me at ease. I tilt my head to press a kiss to his jaw, bristly with stubble. "Are you sure? I could've sworn you mentioned something about lacking 'fully lucid processing—?'"

Cam snorts. "You think you're funny."

Pink in the face, I respond by tugging my shirt over my head. The collar catches on an earring, but Cam just laughs and eases it off gently. My heart hammers so loudly I genuinely wonder if he can hear it.

He sinks his hands into the curve of my waist and ducks his head. Every kiss he presses down my neck is warm and wet and sends me reeling.

"I'm glad I met you," I murmur almost sheepishly, my hands interlocked around his neck. He hums against my bare collarbone before pulling away.

"I'm glad I met you, too."


End file.
